


A Shakarian Christmas Carol

by CavannaRose



Series: Mass Effect Stories [1]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect Spoilers, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-12-13 14:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11762337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: I apologize in advance for this, the idea has been rattling around my crazy brain for days now. It's not even the right season, not yet. But it's coming together fast so I might actually finish a story for once. This is The Christmas Carol Story gone sideways, as Mass Effect so often causes things to. Takes place between ME1 and ME2. Otherwise known as a strange way for Garrus to end up on Omega.





	1. Shepard's Ghost

Shepard was dead, to begin with. She'd lost her life protecting them all, sucked into the cold vacuum of space. He wouldn't have believed it, but the crew that had been on the Normandy that day confirmed every detail of her last moments. Joker's face had been the final confirmation. The Commander had been the glue that held them together. The first human Spectre. The Survivor. Neither slavers in the colonies nor the horrors of Akuze had managed to snuff out the fires that burned inside her. Yet they had, and they couldn't even honour her memory by staying in touch. Every one of them had drifted apart on the tides of cultural differences and old hurts. Every once in a while rumbles would head Garrus' way about what Wrex was up to on Tuchanka, or there would be a faint whisper of Liara's name. The other humans all but disappeared, and Tali was swallowed up by the oppressive silence of the Migrant Fleet.

He told himself that it was better that way. Anonymity he could use, fading away until Garrus Vakarian was just a name, a footnote on the legend of Commander Shepard. He was someone else now. No one asked him questions, no one tried to get to know him. It was better that way. His solitude was respected, and old emotions remained buried. He moved through the back alleys of the Citadel, the shattered dreams of the shiny C-Sec officer crumbled around him. Even the faint hope of Spectre, of following in her footprints, faded away as red tape and politics chattered away any hint of the dangers to come. If they didn't care, why should he?

Still, some nights, like tonight, after former comrades looked through him, not even recognizing him as they dumped him unceremoniously at the door of his quarters, he could almost hear her. Maybe it was the bottle of horosk clutched in his claws, making him maudlin, but he heard His Shepard. Not the strident tones of the battlefield Commander who had won his grudging respect, but the softer voice. The voice of someone who asked questions about her crew, the voice that let you know she was actually going to listen when you answered. That had been a side of Shepard he hadn't expected. Hadn't even appreciated. He took another long draw from the bottle, picturing her face again as he drifted into another night's oblivion.

It was the smell that woke him first. Gun oil and sweat, and that strange musky tang of human. Only one person held that pungently appealing aroma, and the Turian opened one bleary eye to see her there, one hand settled on her hip. He had to blink again, trying to wash the translucent and clearly alcohol-induced image away, but to no avail. There she was, one hand settled on a hip, cocksure grin devoid of judgement.

"Come on now, C-Sec, is this really all you've got in you?" The delusional apparition gestured to disarray and detritus that made up his personal quarters these days. Shaking her head and making a disapproving tsking sound, the vision swiped at him with a booted foot, one that never connected with flesh. He shivered, a chill running through him. This was it. He'd drunk himself dead, finally. "Get up, Vakarian. There's work to be done yet."

Running claws across his mandible, he made a rude noise. "You're dead, Shepard. Why don't you go harass that god of Williams' and leave a washed-up Turian alone." Maybe he really was losing it. No matter how many times he blinked, the faded image of his Commander remained where she stood, face drawn into an ever-deepening frown. He snarled, tossing the half-empty horosk bottle at the human image. Her face grew gentle, and that was almost his undoing. How dare she? She died! She left them! She had no right to stand there and pity him! "What do you want from me, Shepard?"

"Get up, go out there. They need you, now more than ever. If I can't be there to do the job, then dammit Vakarian you should be." Garrus made another rude noise, covering his auditory openings and closing his eyes to block out the image of the human who had made him believe, and then died. It wasn't enough. Somehow, he could still hear her, the disappointment in her voice. "Don't say I didn't warn you, C-Sec. I won't be your last visitor tonight. There's work for you yet."

Several long, silent minutes passed, and finally the Turian lifted his hands away, sighing in relief that the image of Shepard was gone. He shook the confusion and distress from his crest, standing to pace restlessly across the refuse-ridden floor of his quarters. Why Shepard? Why tonight? Clearly this was all a case of too much drink and too much dwelling on the past. Nightmares. Finally convinced that it was all in his head, he rolled himself into his sleeping pad, allowing uneasy sleep to overtake him.


	2. The First of the Three Spirits

Perhaps an hour had passed in fitful sleep before he gave up, rising and stumbling to wash his face in the cracked basin by the door. The glowing display of his Omnitool said that it was midnight, which was ridiculous as it had been past two in the morning when he went to bed. It probably needed to be re-calibrated. As awareness settled over him, he could make out the barest sound of a childish voice, chanting in that singsong way that human children did when they were skipping or jumping. Following the hint of sound, he exited his quarters, moving through the service passage behind them. He stood, blinking slowly at the ghostly apparition of a pre-adolescent human child, dark hair bound in equal tails on either side of the head, jumping in a rhythmic pattern.

" _Dead men, dead men, swinging in a tree,_  
_How many dead men do you see?_  
_Tongue turned blue and face gone grey_  
_Watch them as they twist and sway._

 _The first one killed the doctor man_  
_They balked at first and the bad man ran_  
_Found them later and made things right_  
_On their way to the Reaper's fight._

 _The next one with her smile and sweets_  
_Stolen as a child right off the streets._  
_Batarians died un-valiantly_  
_Who would sell her into slavery._

 _Dead men, dead men, swinging in a tree_  
_How any dead men do you see?_  
_Six feet long and six men wide_  
_Around their necks the noose is tied_."

Unsettled by the song, Vakarian leaned against a crate of equipment, knocking a handful of tools to the ground. The faded image of the human child turned to him, bright brown eyes wide with pleasure. She, he could tell now that it was a female, grinned, showing that her primary dental protrusions were missing. "Oh good, you're awake!" The strange apparition skipped over to him, sliding ghostly fingers between his claws. "I was worried I would have to come fetch you."

Vakarian made a sound of distress, crest ridges raising, but the small figure held on, that strangely familiar, lopsided smile still firmly in place. "Come now, don't be a baby. I have things to show you, you know." The implacable small figure tugged on his claws, and Garrus couldn't resist, following along behind. Maybe he was dead, because as far as he could tell they were moving not just through the corridors and emergency tunnels of the Citadel, but through the very steel and wires that made up the walls. The blackness of space fell away beneath them, and no matter how many times the Turian asked his cheerful companion where they were going, or what was going on, the spectral child was silent. Always smiling, always silent.

Finally they landed in a laboratory, one that was horrifically familiar. Before them stood a brooding Salarian, muttering complaints over an operating table. The figure on the table cried out, and Garrus moved towards it, his arm going through the mad Doctor. "They cannot hear you or see you, we're here to watch." Dr Saleon, for it was clear that was who they were witnessing, stepped away, scalpel held loosely in one hand.

"Failure again. No viable tissue. Waste of time and resources. Your services are no longer required." Just then a pounding sounded on the door, gathering what was closest to him, and ordering several downtrodden individuals into a vehicle, Saleon bolted out the back, just as a much younger, shinier Vakarian in C-Sec riot gear burst in.

"He's fled, try to cut him off before he makes it to the docking bay!" The older Vakarian shouted, but to no avail. Instead he watched his younger self follow procedure, securing the 'patient' on the operating table and checking for boltholes where the madman might be hiding. Garrus cursed, glaring down at the ghostly human child making him relive one of his worst failures. "Why did you bring me here?"

The imp flashed him another toothless smile. "This is where you started to question. Got your fire. And later, she helped you finish the job." The child pulled him forward, and they were zipping through space again. They set down in another lab, the victims, there was no pretense of them being patients now, mindlessly scattered on the floor. The Salarian was trying to convince a hard-faced woman that his experiments had merit. Garrus listened to his own voice protest. The child smiled up at him. "That was when she respected you back. That's when you respected yourself."

They watched as he shot the so-called doctor. Shepard placed a hand on his arm, nodded in approval. "Good work, C-Sec."

Taking his hand once more, the figure of the child moved them through space in the moment between breaths, leaving him at the door to his quarters again. "Failures help us learn, make us what we are. They make us more real. She knew that, and she knew you did too. Once. When did you forget?" The child's face seemed to fall, it looked ... sad. "But you still think it's a dream."

Garrus tried to speak, but it was as if a weight was pulling him down. No matter how he fought it, his voice would not come, nor could he keep his eyes open. Blackness overtook him, and then, blissful unconsciousness once more.


	3. The Second of the Three Spirits

He awoke in the midst of a prodigiously loud snore, and a sense of unease settled over him immediately. Checking the display on his Omnitool again, he noted the displayed time was just before one o'clock. Cursing softly under his breath, he shut it down. Definitely needed calibrating. He settled back in the bed, eyes warily searching the room. He didn't believe in ghosts, not even a little bit, but it was best to be prepared just in case. One o'clock passed, the quarter hour passed, and he began to be more and more convinced that he had dreamed it all. Too much horosk too late at night. That was all this was.

That was all it was, of course, until he noticed a pale light from under the door that separated his sleeping quarters from the main room. Suspicious, he slid from beneath the cover, stooping to pick up his Banshee VI before shuffling to the door. As his hand hovered over the pad to open it, a far-too-familiar voice, full of cheer, called out. "You're not going to shoot me, just come on in."

Gun hanging loosely from his hand now, he entered the room, so much of the fight had gone out of him. He risked a glance at the ghost, but looked away before he made eye contact. The figure was bound in bandages, beyond recognition, but how could he forget that voice? He couldn't bare to see her eyes under all those bandages, spectral, not all there. To have this be the spectre haunting his night, it was almost crueler than he could bear.

The ghostly figure bound in bandages stood, crossing the room to stand by him. "Can you not even look at me? Where is the clever Turian agent, the one who used to brag about his reach and flexibility? He would have met my eyes without fear."

Garrus steeled himself, meeting the ghost's eyes. There they were. Shepard's eyes, the same eyes the Spectral Child had used. His claws tightened on the gun, raising it slightly. "I assume you've come here to show me something, get on with it. I'd rather it be over than have to continue seeing her eyes in that mess."

Laughing, the second ghost stepped even closer, invading his personal space, but Vakarian didn't back down. There was still some steel left in the washed up drunkard. The ghost offered an arm, one bandage trailing from the rest. "Then take hold of my bandage." The former C-Sec officer did as he was told, and held it fast. The squalor of the room faded around them, vanishing into blackness. A warm light began to glow at their feet, until an image of sand and heat swept across the dark expanse. A breeze devoid of even the slightest hint of moisture scraped across his mandibles, drying him out in a heartbeat.

The ghost strode forward, not looking back to ensure it was being followed. Of course, Garrus kept pace as best he could. That was what he always did. They crossed the sands, coming to a place that was more rock than anything else. Even that dropped away ahead of them, the ground emptying out into a deep, hollow bowl. In the bowl were a bunch of Krogans, they formed a chanting circle around two that appeared locked in a dominance battle. Between breaths they were down on the ground, close enough to see every scar on the two Krogan's face.

"Wrex..." Vakarian stepped forward, but the ghost with Shepard's voice grasped his arm, holding him back. The two mighty warriors clashed... massive jaws snapping at one another's throats. The other Krogan produced a blade out of no where, a clear violation of the rules, and jabbed it between the plates of Wrex's armor. His friend went down and Garrus called his name again, with more worry and concern. As he stepped forward, Tuchanka disappeared. He swung on the spirit. "We have to go back! Make sure he's okay. Why would you show me that and not let me help?"

The spirit laughed, a hearty, cheerful sound that seemed so incongruous with what they just witnessed. "What does it matter to you? It's not at the bottom of a bottle after all."

Garrus wanted to argue with the spirit, but... well it wasn't wrong. Frowning he watched his feet as he followed the figure. The grey metal floors past silently underfoot, and his ghostly guide didn't speak. He stopped, suddenly looking around. "I don't... where are we?" The gleaming hallways were mostly empty, the odd human wandering through them. He didn't recognize this place at all.

The spirit laughed again. "We are at our last destination, before I return you to your lonely bed. Just through her, Vakarian." Turning the corner the spectral figure walked right through a door. The Turian hesitated to follow, sudden concern striking him immobile. If he could walk through the door, did that mean he was dead too? He wasn't a ghost. A bandaged hand reached through the closed portal, grasping his forearm and dragging him through.

Before them were a group of humans, backs to the incorporeal pair. They hovered around an operating table. A woman with a heavy accent seemed to be in charge, barking orders as a man muttered stats in a concerned voice. "Reacting to outside stimuli. Demonstrating awareness of her surroundings. My God, Miranda. I think she's waking up!"

The female strode forward, examining whomever was on the table. "Damnit Wilson, she's not ready yet! Give her the sedative!"

Garrus moved forward, trying to get a better look at whomever was on the table, but as he did he stumbled, hitting his shins on the chair in his own quarters. Head whipping around he searched for the spirit, but it seemed to be gone. "Who was it? Who was on the table?!?!?" It was like shouting into the abyss, there was no response. Garrus paced the room, mind alive and full of concerns. These ghosts were getting more and more concerning. Finally, no closer to an answer, and with no further guests responding to his angry shouts, he went back into the other room, lying down and hoping to reclaim his disturbed sleep.


	4. The Last of the Spirits

From the corner of his chamber, there came a sound of disapproval. Bolting back upright, Garrus let out a frightened breath. Clad in pitch black Spectre armour, the visor opaque so that he couldn't make out much of the face, other than a pair of frowning lips, marred by hideous scarring. Somewhere, he felt they were familiar, but as the figure drew closer he lowered himself to one knee, for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. The figure reached a gloved hand out to Garrus, and though he shuddered, he followed it with his gaze.  He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved. "What visions will you show me? Past mistakes? Present horrors?" The spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand. Realization dawned upon the Turian, and he was unsure he wished to know what this ghost had come to show him. "You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Garrus ventured. "Is that so, Spirit?"

The armoured Spirit inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. Certainly Shepard had been terse, known for brevity in her speech at times of seriousness, but this was more than that, and it unsettled him greatly. Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Garrus feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it, claws clacking against the floor in an anxious staccato. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and gave him time to recover. But he was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the darkened helmet, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but those scarred, frowning lips.

"Ghost of the Future," he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be the Turian that I once was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me." It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.  "Lead on,' said Garrus, his mandibles clicking with the nervous tension building inside, "Lead on. The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit."

The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Hesitating he ran a concerned claw along his crest, and then stepped into the shadows that were so thick around the creature, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along. Space passed them by, darker now, emptier somehow than before. Finally they were in what seemed to be the bowels of some complex warren, or perhaps, given the materials of the walls, an enormous ship of some kind. Armoured creatures with glowing eyes swarmed the corridors, driving captives before them. Human, Turian, Krogan, all fell before the might of the swarm. Entering a larger chamber, a familiar voice echoed across the scene, and Garrus stared in disbelief. How could this be the future, if that was Shepard before him?

She charged into the fray, braver than any Krogan, guns blazing like a vision of death. On her left, an unfamiliar Krogan charged, laughing, and made Garrus wonder where Wrex was. Shouldn't he be here? On her left, in the spot he should be, stood a Drell, silent but deadly as he engaged the enemy. "Watch your six, Siha!" Garrus shook, part of him in disbelief, part in jealousy. This was not how things were supposed to happen. Where was he? Where were her people? Finally Tali came into view, a combat drone in front of her, omni tool out and ablaze. "Better than the old days! We've got this!"

The Drell was good, but not as good as Garrus, and the Turian spotted a weakness in the line, putting Shepard at risk. He called out a warning, but no one heard him, and the phantom at his side stood, impassive. Horrified, Garrus could only look on as the creatures overwhelmed the fiery human, and she vanished beneath their chitinous bodies. He fell to his knees, a keening sound emerging from his craw. "Where am I? She needed me, where AM I??"

Silently the figure turned from the massacre, Garrus swept along in the shadows. They were in the worst part of the Citadel, worse even than the living quarters the spirits had taken him from. Here lay the forgotten, the unwanted. Here they came to die, anonymously, to be cleared out by the Keepers in the morning. A disheveled and sick looking Turian slumped down against the wall ahead of them, sliding to the ground, an empty vial of something sliding from his claws. Then he was still.  The Spirit stood among the dead and dying, and pointed down to the figure Garrus had watched breath it's last. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape. "Before I draw nearer to that poor wretch to which you point," he began, crest quivering, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?"

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. "The courses of fighters will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead, certainly. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me." The Spirit was immovable as ever. Crouching down in the shadow of the implacable ghoul that tormented him so, he tilted up the dead Turian's face, to see that it was his own, thinner, faded with ill health and the chill of death setting it. With a cry he fell backwards, scrabbling away from the horror as if it had burned him. "No, Spirit. Oh no, no."

The finger still was there, pointing. "Spirit." he cried, claws digging into the armour-clad leg, "hear me. I am not the Turian I was. I will not be the Turian I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?" For the first time the hand appeared to shake. "Good Spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it, "Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life." The kind hand trembled.

"I will sober up, clean myself off and live as Shepard would have wanted, would have expected. I'll help the helpless, continue the fight. Remind those in power that the Reapers still come. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I can change this sad, nameless fate!" In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's armour. The opacity of the visor faded away, revealing that oh-so-familiar face, laced with scars. The ghost-Shepard winked at him once, and vanished, leaving him alone on the floor of his room once more.


	5. The End Of It

He was here, in his own chambers! The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in. To do things properly this time, to make Shepard proud. To be the man she had faith in to trust her six. "I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future." He repeated furiously, scrambling to his feet and crossing the room with determined motions. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Shepard be praised for this. I say it on my knees, Shepard, on my knees. I will not fail you."

He wasn't sure where she'd be, but he knew that somewhere, she was out there. Alive. She would need him in peak condition when she made herself known again. They had an enemy, bigger and badder than any they'd faced before. Worse than Saren and Sovereign combined. Carefully and methodically he dug out his armour and weapons, cleaning them until they were practically new, calibrating the gun for optimal firepower and range. He even ventured out into the Commons to find a new scope for the M-98 Widow.

There was one place where he could hone his skills, really make a difference and be ready when the call came, because he just knew in his craw that the call would come. Garrus Vakarian was headed for Omega. It was time to put fear into the hearts of some scumbags. He needed a name, one he could work under, to keep those that knew him off the scent until Shepard was ready. Passing a rundown looking human begging at the docks, he swiped a few credits across the vending machine, producing some Tupari that he placed in their shaking hands. "Bless you, you're like an angel." The poor creature was crying, over some boxed juice.

He remembered Shepard and Williams arguing about angels once. It had been a good-natured discussion, and he'd found it amusing. Angel wasn't quite what he was, but searching his memory he found something with a little more bite. Archangel.


End file.
